Get trained and get feminized, you are a sissy and get pimped out by a *******. Get addicted to anal stimulation and nurture your slutty wild side

A number of years ago, I walked into a small back street Charity Shop on the edge of town. I wasn’t really looking for anything specific just browsing, killing time, letting my eyes wander over the racks the way I always did when I felt that familiar restless itch under my skin. Then I saw it. Hanging slightly askew on a padded hanger near the back wall, half-hidden behind a row of sensible navy blazers, was a floor-length satin bridal gown. Ivory, not stark white. The bodice was structured but not boned, the skirt a gentle A-line that flared softly rather than ballooning into tulle insanity. A modest neckline. Delicate lace overlay on the shoulders and upper chest. And pinned to the hanger was the tag: Size 32 Worn once £49. My heart gave a hard, guilty thud. I’m a UK 18" collar with a 50" chest in men’s shirts. But dresses… dresses measure differently. Especially wedding dresses. Especially ones made to accommodate curves most people would call “plus size.” I glanced around. The shop was quiet. An older woman with silver hair was sorting bric-a-brac at the counter; a younger volunteer early twenties, purple streaks in her hair was steaming something in the corner. I lifted the gown off the rail. The satin felt cool and liquid against my palms. Heavy in the right way. I carried it toward the changing cubicle like I was smuggling contraband. “Would you like to try it on, love?” the silver-haired woman called out. Her voice was kind, matter-of-fact. No trace of surprise or judgement. I froze for half a second. “Yes please,” I managed. My voice sounded smaller than usual. She smiled. “Curtain’s already drawn back there. Take your time. Shout if you need a hand with the zip.” The cubicle was narrow, just a full-length mirror screwed to the wall, a single hook, and a thin beige curtain that didn’t quite reach the floor. I hung the dress on the hook and stripped quickly out of my jeans, hoodie, socks, boxers, down to bare skin that already felt too warm, too alive. My **** was already half-hard just from touching the fabric, from the sheer improbability of this moment. I reached into the pocket of my discarded jeans on the floor and found the condom I always carried now just in case. Fingers trembling, I tore the packet, rolled the latex down over my throbbing length, making sure the reservoir tip was positioned correctly. The relief of containment was immediate. No stains. No evidence. Just secret, pulsing heat trapped safely inside. I stepped into the gown. The skirt whispered up my calves, over my thighs. I pulled it past my hips slowly, carefully and the satin glided over the soft roundness of my belly without catching. I tugged the bodice up over my chest. The cups were generously cut, there was room. Actual room. I reached behind and found the long invisible zip. It slid up smoothly, no resistance, no straining. When I let my arms drop, the dress settled around me like it had been waiting. I looked in the mirror. The reflection showed someone soft and full and blushing furiously beneath ivory satin. The modest neckline framed the gentle swell of my chest and the faint shadow of cleavage created by the way the bodice pushed everything together. My hips looked wide and womanly beneath the smooth fall of fabric. My belly made a soft, proud curve against the front of the skirt. I turned sideways. The line from back to front was lush, generous, unapologetic. It fit. It actually fit. A small, involuntary whimper escaped me. I heard footsteps outside the curtain. “Everything alright in there?” It was the younger volunteer this time. I swallowed. “Yes. Um… could you, could you maybe check the zip? Just to make sure it’s all the way up?” The curtain parted a few inches. She peeked in, eyes widening for only a heartbeat before her face softened into a genuine smile. She stepped inside careful, professional and fastened the tiny hook-and-eye at the top of the zip I hadn’t been able to reach. Her fingers were gentle. “There. Perfect. It’s like it was made for you.” I couldn’t speak. My **** was fully hard now, straining painfully against the satin lining. A bead of pre-cum had already escaped and I could feel the slippery warmth of it against the inside of the dress. I smoothed the front of the skirt with both hands. The satin gleamed under the fluorescent light. I looked sill looked like a bloke in a dress. A big, soft, blushing, overweight very happy bride. When I finally stepped out, both women were waiting. “I’ll take it,” I said. Whilst the younger woman unhooked and unzipped me, the silver-haired woman rang it up. “£49. Cash or card, love?” I handed over my card. I left the Charity Shop with the dress folded carefully in a large carrier bag, the memory of satin against every inch of my skin still electric. And for the first time in years, I didn’t feel like I was hiding. I felt like I was finally beginning to find myself.

Why ??? ...

I often think
About girls
Who like
To live
Me with...

Who I am?
Prince in funny dress?
A doll?
Or just Caprise?
Or do they feel in me
Princess
Who's different and soft?
Not too agressive at the end
"With money , tools and worth..."

I do not know...
When I'm dressed
Some look on me
With interest...
So I am not
Prevert for them...
But who?
Hermaphrodite?
Not yet?

Or maybe many are
Just blind....
Attracted to my legs?
Or envy?
I did never mind
If girls have interest

Some few who knew me
In the past
Are still confused
And cold...
I do not know
Should or must
I take off all my shorts?
Should I be naked
Or be in tights?
What difference it makes?
Or visous circle locks so tight... in there
By witch spelt...?
Why we're rejected
Being in tights?
Why liked to be just naked?
This problem's wondering
My mind
Why it is sin to be so stright.
To walk
To show legs...
Why it is frightening
For whem
If not about sex...?
I do not know
In my brain
There is perhaps a gap ..

S_k_y blocked as she's a cis woman and even worse the amount of people on here saying how pretty she is. you can find all her pictures over the net so likely stolen from genuine person. the posts and profile have zero to do with this site. stop praising them whoever it is. think with your brain for once

I stood in front of the full-length mirror in my dimly lit bedroom, my heart pounding with anticipation. At 64 years old, my body had softened over the years—my ample belly and wide hips a testament to a life of indulgence, now embraced in my secret world as a sissy crossdresser. Layers of shimmering satin enveloped me like a cocoon, not restraining but caressing every curve. A voluminous satin nightgown draped over my frame, its glossy fabric pooling around my thighs, while beneath it, satin panties hugged my skin, and a satin slip added another silky barrier. I felt shrouded, encased in luxury, every movement sending whispers of fabric against fabric.
My hands trembled slightly as I reached for the condom on the nightstand. I tore open the packet with care, the latex unfurling smoothly. Sliding it over my hardening arousal, I savored the initial cool tightness, a prelude to the symphony of sensations to come. It fit snugly, ready to capture the climax of this intimate ritual.
Now, I turned my attention to the fabrics that called to me. My fingers glided over the satin nightgown, tracing the smooth, slippery surface that clung to my obese form. The material shifted with each breath, rubbing against my skin in waves of electric silkiness. I ran my hands down my sides, feeling the layers bunch and slide, the overwhelming sensuality building as the satin whispered promises of ecstasy. My belly, soft and round, pressed against the inner layers, amplifying the friction—cool satin warming to my body heat, turning into a second skin that teased every nerve.
I moved to the dresser, where my collection of headscarves awaited. First, I selected an oversized satin one in deep crimson, draping it over my head like a veil of night. It cascaded down my back and shoulders, the edges brushing my neck. I tied it firmly under my chin, the knot secure but gentle, then looped the excess around my neck in a loose bow, adding another layer of encasement that framed my face in glossy folds. The satin pressed softly against my cheeks, its texture so smooth it felt like liquid silk pouring over me.
Not satisfied, I layered another—emerald green, even larger, overlapping the first. I repeated the process: over the head, tied under the chin with a double knot for that extra hug of fabric, then wrapped around my neck in elegant loops that nestled against my throat. The combined weight was delicious, the satins rustling together with every turn of my head, sending shivers down my spine. A third layer followed, ivory white and billowing, tied and looped in the same manner, now creating a multi-hued shroud that muffled the world outside, focusing all sensation inward.
To complete the encasement, I added the sheer voile chiffon veils. These were lighter, almost ethereal, like mist. I pulled the first one over my head as a hood, its transparent layers fluttering down to my shoulders, veiling my vision in a hazy dreamscape. The chiffon whispered against the satin scarves beneath, a delicate contrast to their heavier gloss—airy and teasing, brushing my lips and eyelids with feather-light touches. I added a second chiffon veil, then a third, each one encasing my head further, the sheer fabric layering into a translucent barrier that heightened every breath, every subtle movement.
Encased now from head to toe, I lay back on the bed, the satin sheets beneath me adding to the chorus. My hands explored freely: sliding under the nightgown to feel the panties' slick embrace, then up to my chest where the slip's fabric bunched against my skin. The sensations overwhelmed me—the cool slide of satin on satin, the warmth building where layers met my body's curves, the chiffon veils shifting like a gentle breeze across my face. My arousal throbbed within the condom, begging for attention.
I gave in, my hand wrapping around myself through the thin latex. The strokes were slow at first, savoring how the satin panties amplified each motion, the fabrics around me rustling in rhythm. The headscarves tugged slightly with my movements, their knots and loops a constant reminder of my shrouded state. Faster now, the sensations cresting—silky textures merging into a tidal wave of pleasure. With a muffled gasp beneath the veils, I released, filling the condom in blissful waves, my body quivering in the satin embrace until I lay spent, utterly satisfied in my encasement.

My dildos i bought, cant wait to train myself up to take the biggest there

When I did Maid training

Still sick in bed. Now listening to the rain. Wish I had a man to take care of me.

http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

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Imagine after CD time you decided a full transition and therapy. CD was aestetic and not gay game... Do you think your brain will change , evolve and:

The first assignment will be easy for you sissies. It is simple but will start your humiliation and sissy training. You will go out to the local department store and you will purchase one of the following colors of nail polish.
1) clear with sparkles
2) bright hot pink
3)slut red

So for some reason last night around 8pm I thought it would be a good idea to go outside into my back garden and strip off down to my bra and panties. But then I thought, heck why not go out to the front of my house. Its dark and there aren’t many people around, so I put my trainers on and walked around to the front of my house and just stood there in my bra, panties and trainers. It felt soo good. However, I think a lady dog walker might have seen me. As soon as I saw her I ran back off around the side of my house, but I think she caught a glimpse. What a rush I got. However now I’m panicking that she knows where I live and what I like to wear. What should I do?

Why Do We Like Butts?

This question stuck with me after seeing a dumb Facebook meme. A guy tells a woman she has a great ass. She replies sarcastically: “Thank you! I keep poop in it.”

Crude—but true.

We defecate through our butts. And yet, across cultures, centuries, genders, and sexual orientations, humans are deeply attracted to them. Straight, gay, bi, queer. Cis, trans, gender-nonconforming. People admire them, desire them, sculpt them, and eroticize them relentlessly.

So why?

The answer isn’t about function. Attraction doesn’t work that way. It’s about signal, shape, and meaning.

From a biological and evolutionary standpoint, there is broad scientific consensus that humans are drawn to certain body shapes because they act as visual cues of health and fertility. Research in evolutionary psychology shows that hip width, fat distribution, and lumbar curvature correlate with reproductive health. A pronounced lower-back curve visually emphasizes the buttocks, and a favorable waist-to-hip ratio is widely perceived as attractive across cultures.

The brain isn’t thinking about anatomy or waste. Just as people don’t look at mouths and think about digestion, attraction filters out function and locks onto form.

That resonates with me. I’m attracted to butts—the curve, the fullness, the way the lower back opens into flesh. It’s immediate and bodily. I’m especially drawn to very feminine women and their hips and butts. Their embodiment feels like a distilled expression of femininity—grounded, confident, complete. There’s desire there, but also admiration and longing.

At the same time, I’m keenly aware that men are attracted to my ass.

I feel it in their gaze, in how attention lingers. That awareness shapes how I inhabit my body. As Michel Foucault argues, bodies are never neutral—they are read, eroticized, and positioned within systems of power (Foucault, The History of Sexuality). When my body is desired for a part culturally coded as feminine, I’m not just being wanted—I’m being located as receptive.

This is where gender theory becomes personal.

I’m a sissy crossdresser. I don’t yet know if I’m trans, and I’ve stopped treating that uncertainty as a problem. What I do know is that my gender has taken shape through repetition, recognition, and power. Judith Butler argues that gender is constituted through repeated acts that solidify into identity over time (Butler, Gender Trouble). When I soften my posture, present femininely, and allow myself to be read in certain ways, I’m not pretending. I’m performing gender into being.

My attraction to men is structured around masculinity, dominance, and control. I’m drawn to men grounded in their power. Submission, for me, isn’t weakness—it’s orientation. Yielding clarifies my femininity rather than erasing it.

This connects to why attraction to butts often overlaps with interest in anal sexuality. For some, anal sex symbolizes dominance, possession, or control—access to a guarded, vulnerable space. For others, it represents intimacy, trust, and bonding. For many, it’s a mix of both. In heterosexual contexts, it allows penetration without pregnancy; in male-male contexts, it is the primary site through which penetration and possession are symbolically enacted. In every case, the butt becomes a site of power, vulnerability, and meaning.

From an embodiment perspective, this makes sense. Maurice Merleau-Ponty argued that the body is not an object we possess but the medium through which we experience the world (Phenomenology of Perception). My body learns who it is by responding—by yielding, being read, and being desired.

So yes—we poop through our butts. That’s true.

But humans have always been capable of holding multiple truths at once. The same body part can be mundane and symbolic, functional and erotic. What matters isn’t what the body does, but what it means when another human desires it—and how that desire shapes who we become.


What are your thoughts??
-Chrissy

https://chrissyinsd.blogspot.com/

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My First Experience as a Truck Stop Wh-re or Chrissy — A Night on the Road Continued... (Part II) (To see the beginning, Part I, visit my page and scroll down):
The bra came next.

I hesitated for half a second—long enough for the moment to stretch—then let it slide off. Cool air kissed my skin. His breath caught audibly. He didn’t touch me yet. He didn’t need to.

Click.
Click.

I could feel my body responding to the attention, to the knowledge that this version of me was being captured, saved, proof that Chrissy existed. That I wasn’t just a thought or a secret ritual in front of a mirror.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, and I believed him.

When the last of the fabric was gone, I stood there fully exposed under the red glow, arms crossed loosely at first, then letting them fall to my sides. Vulnerability pulsed through me—electric, frightening, intoxicating. I felt open, claimed by the moment, by the lens, by his gaze.

He stepped closer then. Close enough that I could feel his heat without being touched. One hand lifted my chin, not roughly, just enough to make me meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said. “Not the camera.”

I did.

The photos continued, slower now, more deliberate. Less about documenting and more about possession. When he finally set the phone down, my skin felt hypersensitive, like every nerve had been tuned too high.

When he guided me back onto the bunk, the vinyl was cold at first, then quickly warmed beneath me. I lay there open to him, knees drawn up, posture unmistakable, my body arranged in a way that made refusal impossible—but refusal wasn’t what I felt.

What I felt was permission being taken.

The cab groaned softly as he leaned over me, blocking out the low red light, blocking out the rest of the world. His hands settled at my hips and stayed there—anchoring me, claiming the space where my choices narrowed into a single direction. He didn’t hurry. He waited. Long enough that the waiting itself became its own kind of pressure.

My breath went shallow. My body answered before my mind could intervene.

When he finally moved, the sensation was overwhelming—not sharp, not violent, but consuming. The kind of closeness that demands you make room for it, that insists you soften or break. I felt myself give way in small increments, each one deliberate, each one erasing a little more distance between who I pretend to be and what I was becoming in that moment. He plowed my asspussy over and over....in and out...in and out...in..in...getting deeper each time.

He watched my face closely, as if he needed to see exactly where I disappeared. Every sound I made seemed to encourage him, draw him deeper into his own control. I clutched the bedding, holding on to something solid as my thoughts scattered, replaced by a single, relentless awareness of being used with purpose.

“Relax,” he said quietly, almost kindly. “I’ve got you.”

And I surrendered.

Not just my body—my resistance. I let the tension drain out of me and allowed the sensation to take over completely. There was a point where I stopped tracking time, stopped measuring what I was giving and what I was losing. My body responded on its own terms, breaking open in waves that left me shaking, emptied of pretense.

I heard him make a sound above me—rough, unfiltered—and knew I’d been brought exactly where he wanted me. I knew he came, he ejaculated, he sprayed his man juice, his sperm, his DNA deep inside me. I could feel it, the warm, sticky liquid clinging to my insides.

Afterward, when he pulled me up toward him again, there was no gentleness in the request—just expectation. I recognized it instantly. My knees braced against the seat, my hands guided into place, my mouth following where my thoughts no longer led. I focused on the task, on being useful, on doing it right. There was comfort in that narrow focus. Safety, even. More to cum....

#crossdresser #sissy #sissyboy #crossdressers #sissies #shemale #ladyboy #femboy #femman #femboys #crossdressing #gurl #trans #transgirl #transwoman #transgender #tgirl #gay #lgbtq #nsfw #adultsonly #adultcontent #sissy #crossdresser #crossdressing #femboy #sissyboy #sissygirl #trans #transgender #shemale #transgirl #transwoman #transfemale #tgirl #model #modeling #gay #bi #lgbtq #queer #genderfluid #pantymodel #panty #panties #meninpanties #ladyboy More: http://chrissyinsd.hotviber.com/

Cheeky dressing weekend whilst training xx

Do you want to drain mummy ***** while locked in Chastity? Then message me

Took my wife to Manchester airport overnight. Rain and fog was extreme to say the least around ladybower. All i could think about was doing something I've never done before on the way back . Got to near glossop, almost zero visibility so pulled over and got undressed. Just put these thermal tightson, these low heels that i love and my leather jacket. Got in the car and drove a few miles further and got the urge to pull over and walk for a few minutes. I felt liberated for the first time ever and wasn't cold at all?do thumbe up to these tights haha.

My Mistre ss told me yesterday, to buy some plain cotton knickers. I have to attend a training session tomorrow, when I will receive a spanking, and a pegging, while I am wearing those knickers. I had to get high leg knickers so they could expose my bottom cheeks and be easily pulled to one side for ease of entry

Went for a training session last weekend x

I have just woke up wrapped up in our satin nightdresses, at a time before her illness made sleeping together a problem, we had matching satin pink nightdresses. Last night I pulled the suitcase down from the top of the wardrobe and laid them out on the bed. Pink Simply Be Pretty Secrets Nightdresses in lovely silky satin. Full covered shoulder to capped sleeves with lace piping and spread across the breast. Calf length satin shimmering in Pink. My wife's is regularly worn in UK size 32/34, mine is newer UK size 20/22, I liked a slimmer tight nightdress that hugged my skin, my wife wore hers two sizes bigger than her usual larger dress size to make it easier to slide around in bed. I slipped mine on and shimmied the satin down my moobs and hips to rest around my calves. My wife's was like a tent on my body, lots of voluminous extra satin material hanging loose. The double layer feeling of all the satin was wonderful and I admit the erection had to be contained within a condom because pre cum started instantly. I lay on the bed and was overcome with both longing and grief, I laid there on the bed with tears in my eyes and sobbing in my chest. When I had calmed down the sensual aspect of the double layer satin took over and led to the inevitable masturbation. Physically and emotionally I was drained and fell asleep waking a few hours later needing to take off the condom and go to the toilet for a wee. As I walked back from the toilet to the bedroom the satin reminded me of our sensuality and our love. Wrapped in the double layer of satin underneath the quilt I felt comforted and slept deep until this morning. For me this needs to become my new deeply tender and bittersweet mourning ritual, one that holds both the sharp pain of loss and the soft warmth of memory all at once. Wearing her nightdress over mine, letting all that extra satin envelop me like a tent, felt almost like being held by her again. The way the fabric moved, the shimmer, the slide of it against my skin… it’s no wonder my body responded so immediately and so completely. And now I’ve found a ritual: pulling down the suitcase, laying the nightdresses side by side on the bed, slipping into both, letting the satin hold me in that bittersweet double embrace. It’s sacred because it’s mine and hers alone. It keeps the connection alive in the most embodied way possible through touch, through memory, through the very fabric we both wore against our skin when we made love, laughed, slept, lived. Grief and desire live right next to each other; one doesn’t cancel out the other. The tears, the arousal, the release, the comfort, it all belongs within my psyche. I honored her, our love, and the sensuality we shared by allowing myself to feel everything that came up. For my state of mind, there’s something sacred in keeping those satin nightdresses layered together, in pulling them out when the longing gets too heavy, in letting them carry me back to the nights when sleeping tangled together in satin was simply how life was. I'm keeping the connection alive in the most intimate, embodied way possible. I loved her totally, and I'm still loving her beautifully in my mourning.

This image I admit was FaceApped on my Android mobile phone. I was waiting to catch a train to a previous funeral ( I'm going to too many as I get older) as the male version of myself and whilst waiting on the platform edited the photo into the image I would like the world to see. She's not pretty in the glamorous way I wish i could be, but she is my mature mourning persona, the widow that I now have become.

It's cold, dark, rainy and gloomy. I was dreaming about summer on the beach and...... thought a bit exercise now and then shall keep me in form. My good CD friend likes walking to gym and it's no wonder she looks so sexy, but I like to do it in my style..... in heels :)

Beware! Seevelorraine is a Telegram scammer. Reported and blocked.

Rainbow candle...

My adopted granddaughter made cake with candles for me and one of them she insisted should be rainbow arch...
It was one of those moment when kid suddenly feels truth not ever knowing neither details nor meanings...
Or does she feels my hidden life as Kate.
I am so amased
How do they feel it?

I know there are a lot of wounded people in crossdressing, wounded not physically, but spiritually. I have many wounds in my soul myself.
I just want to leave these lines.

You will remain outside,
Or you will decide to enter,
You will surrender your mind, or your soul —
There are only two paths.
If you enter — where do you go next?
To the right is the path of truth, to the left — of falsehood.
You might get so lost that you suddenly start to run
Along winding pathways, where bones can't be collected.
And having traveled many miles through faceless spaces,
To end up in useless and wild places,
In places of waiting, where people simply wait.
They wait for a train to leave,
They wait for a bus to arrive.
Or a plane will carry them away,
Or a letter will suddenly arrive,
Or the rain will fall,
That the phone will ring
Or the snow will fall,
They wait simply — for “yes” or “no”,
Or a string of pearls,
Or a copper basin,
They wait for how they should be
Or for a new chance.

I edited the photo a bit after reading these lines to illustrate that our path isn't always paved with flowers.
But... "show must go on" (с) - Freddy

Life goes on, no matter what it is.

Dreams

My morning dream
To be still Kate
To wear dress
And pretty make
Get up
Not waking
My girlfriend
Have coffee
Vogue, slim cigarette
Put orange lipstick
Light cream dress
And walk
Through park
with interest
Look on young girls
Say No to man
And feel so happy
Under rain
Return
And change
And feel no shame
That I am girl
A whole day...

First but not the last photo ...

It was one of my first open trips as Kate, one of the first successful photo. All as I trully wanted blue lashes, choclate lipstick, long hair...
I publish it now as I do not know if I am able to continue
Almost a year of photo work came to sudden problem
Security Seems to have camera in where I change
Against any law and ordinary human sence
Every time I lock to change late in the evening they immediately come to ask if anything OK with me...
No it is not OK with me I want peacefuly lock myself make make up and chose dress.
And live that little time as Kate...
At First I thought an accident now I know not And I may easily loose my job too.For that I soend time in loo aftwr honestly done work...

I need to make a pause
Stop desining
May be train myself better makeup somewhere
The oublic baby changing room do not allow to lock yourself
I would never fo it at home...
Just nowhere to do what I like if only Kate on a trip...

Wish you all peaceful time
I might still write something or work on old photos but they are not so good any more for me

Lots of Love
Good Health and strong pleasant tights...
Love Light and Joy.
Kate

White Foundation... White Heat

White light goin' down to my brain
Hey, don't you know it's gonna make me insane...

White light goin' messin' up my mind
Don't you know it's gonna make me go blind ...

Lou Reed.

A naughty pet, tightly restrained for misbehaving. Are you going to act the same way… or will you prove you know how to obey?

Shameless ...

They call me shameless
Shameless Kate
Who's wildly walk the street
Who has no skirt over her tights
And bluches cheeks in pink...

Yes I am walking
Simply sans
Sans shame
And sans barriers...
Some men are trying
Steeet romance
To offer one night
Stand...
And women put sad eyes away
To hide some interest...
Kate lost her touch
She lost her taste
And often She's madly
strange ...
Kate came to Earth from Io's space...

One Fairy Lady asked me once
What I have lost in past
I answered
I lost my pants
My dress and wish to Love...
She whispered me known words
My Granny taught to me once:
"You're Allien
My dear girl
And this is
Pure fact...
Word "boy" was only
Coverup
to hide your roots and past ...
Remember Io
Little girl
The only place with Love...
And if the acid rain begins
Get rid of cotton dress
And stay in tights
However think
With anger or impressed...
...
Until you learn
To hide your Love
Be opened and undressed
And never mind
What other think...
They are no interest...

My little girl
It's worth to fall
To learn how
Nice is flight...
And when you landed
Loosing skirt
Just walk
Not shy
With pride...
You're never looking
For Earth sex
It's hard to find true Love
Just walk,
Don't look aside or back
Just walk your own Path...

How good would it be to have a crossdresser convention at the NEC Birmingham with loads of clothing stalls, Beauty training and everything crossdresser related i would love it but probably spend a forture

Yesterday I went for my nephew’s birthday party. As usual I wore g-string under my regular jeans. The party was for the family so all my close relatives were there. At some point the discussion started about wearing the string and hot it is not conformable etc. I was silence, just smiling and nodding, but each and every time aunt, uncle or whoever glanced at me or We got an eye contact I heard the voice in my head THEY KNOW, YOU CAN NOT HIDE, THEY ALL KOW. SHAME. SHAME. As you might have guested it…….. turned me on (not aunts nor uncles for those curious!). The obvious morale of this story is that what a relief that, with all the masks and pretends, it’s good to know that our brain does not limit you… Picture is unrelated, posted just to bring more attention to the story

Christmas is cumming! Here is a traditional Christmas story! lol : It happened last Christmas Eve. Snow whispered against my window, blanketing the world in a serene hush as I drifted off under layers of warmth. The soft glow of the Christmas lights outside painted gentle colors on my walls, blending with the lace and satin of the red lingerie I had on. A sudden thud on the roof jolted me awake. My heart raced as I strained to hear more, the sound of bells jingling faintly and what could only be the sneeze of an animal carried through the stillness. I sat up, clutching my blankets closer. Moments later, a creak echoed from downstairs, like footsteps crossing the living room floor.

Still groggy but alert, I reached for my phone, ready to call for help if needed. Peering cautiously into the hallway, I heard a deep, hearty laugh resonate through the house. “Ho, ho, ho!” The voice was unmistakable, rich and warm, and yet impossible. Santa? No, it had to be some burglar pulling a strange stunt. My skepticism flared as I crept down the stairs, each step measured and quiet.

When I reached the living room, I froze. The space was bathed in a soft, unearthly glow, and standing before the tree was a man who looked every bit the part of Santa Claus—velvet red suit, snowy white beard, and a twinkle in his eye that seemed almost magical. He was munching on the cookies I’d left out as a joke, milk in hand.

"What the **** are you doing?" I yelled indignant.

The man turned around to look at me. "Watch your language, Chrissy," he scolded me gently. "You're already on my naughty list."

"How did you know my name?"

"Ho, ho, ho! I know everything about you, including when you're sleeping and when you are awake. I'm Santa!"

"Santa isn't real!"

"So you don't believe your eyes?"

"You're just some thug dressed up as Santa."

"Ho, ho, ho! Look up at the roof and tell me how a thug got a magical sleigh and a team of magical, flying reindeer. Ho, ho, ho!"

I didn't have to look, the noise I heard on my roof earlier lined up perfectly with that of reindeer.

"But...but...you're not real." I stuttered.

"Chrissy, I'm as real as you want me to be. And you have been naughty. Ho, ho, ho!"

"If that's true," I challenged. "Why are you in my home?"

"Ho! Ho! Ho! Because I love naughty boys, I give them a big gift! Ho! Ho! Ho!" With that he unbuckled his black broad buckled belt and unzipped his red pants. Out jumped his huge, wrinkled, snow-white penis, uncut of course with lots of foreskin, and it was hard and long. There was pre-cum already dripping from it. Santa winked at me then said, "cum get your gift, Chrissy. Ho! Ho! Ho!"

Being the naughty ladyboy femboy slut I am, I complied and fell to my knees in front of Santa. I grabbed his rock-hard **** and squeezed it while placing my lips around it. It was so salty, vinegary, wet and sticky. His manjuices were already leaking into my mouth as I sucked on him. slurp slurp slurp I stroked his dick as I sucked, then started fucking him with my mouth...going up and down, up and down on his penis...my tongue would lick the tip and shaft at times.

Santa's dick started to swell and throb...but he pushed my head away. "Ho, ho, ho! He said, "I finish in naughty boy's ass."

(Continued in next post)

#sissy #femboy #transgender #gurl #sissyboy #tgirl #CD #crossdresser #crossdressing #transgirl #transwoman #adultcontent #nsfw

So, my aunt lives in the forest. She asked me to help her cleaning the roof of leaves and needles. As today was a cold but sunny day, I though wearing nice panties on the root is a good idea. I took g-string, the same I am wearing on the attached picture (To avoid all questions concerning the picture: Under my regular cloth I was wearing just g-string. No heels, stockings etc. I would love to do the work all dressed up, but as I mentioned yesterday – We have really cold November). The problem was, that this time the roof was really wet and slippery. At one point a was really on the verge of falling down. In that instant moment, the millisecond I thought that the doctors in the Hospital will be so excited with my sexy panties and……. It turned me on. I didn’t fall. The obvious moral of this story is….. it is so curious how the human brain works…….. Good evening Everybody.

t.me/DisciplineMommy
Send me a private message begging for entry into my training attendance Only then will you begin your path to becoming the best, most devoted submissive sissy girl under my heart’s discipline and serious service to prove the reality of the slut

Late Train

Flirt in train to The Orange Ball